In Good Hands
by Naye
Summary: The team are going home after yet another mission gone horribly wrong. A sweet little scene of team hurt/comfort.


In Good Hands

by Naye

The last stretch to the jumper was the worst. Fleeing for their lives always sucked, but the rain beating down on them added a touch of extra misery to the whole affair. Soaked, Rodney could hear the deep rumble of approaching thunder over the noise of splashing and squelching and his own labored breathing. It was a terrible situation, but not bad enough that it couldn't get worse. With them, it never was.

Another suck-factor in their equation was that only two of their team were carrying weapons, and in any shape to lay down cover fire—the same cover fire they desperately needed to avoid horrible death by sharp pointy objects. Ronon, as usual, was no worse for wear—it would take more than a fight to slow him down—and Teyla was all grim determination. The two of them had seemed tempted to stay behind and beat the crap out of some more guys. Considering the mood the two were in after the day's events, Rodney had no doubt that they would have succeeded spectacularly. He almost felt sorry for them, torn away from all that fun by the need to get their rescuees to safety.

Rodney hurt, a lot, and Sheppard was _staggering_. Rodney was used to being the limping one of the group—seeing the lithe colonel stumble repeatedly was almost more of a distraction than his own blinding pain, and the awareness that Sheppard had gotten trashed protecting Rodney kept nagging at the back of his mind. Then Rodney would have to twist to duck a low outcropping in the canyon wall, and the thousand white-hot skewers stabbing him in the chest would effectively seize his complete and undivided attention, obliterating any traces of guilt.

Every gasp Rodney made hurt as fiercely as the blows that had first broken his ribs, and he held his arms protectively over his chest as he scrambled on, trying to breathe shallow breaths. Please don't poke through my lungs, he thought at the ribs. You really want to stay where you are, you don't want to explore anywhere else in my body, you're _happy_ to keep away from all my soft tissue. He wanted morphine and a dry jumper and he wouldn't get either if he got killed on the way there by an adventurously inclined piece of his own body.

There was so much to worry about that it took someone with his own genius skill at multitasking to manage it all. Did that last clap of thunder sound closer than the last one? Was the mud at the canyon's bottom going to turn into a flash flood and drown them all? Were there any signs of their pursuers catching up to them? And had that idiot colonel just batted away Ronon's offer of a helping hand? Sheppard must be having delusions of noble leadership again, sending Ronon back to take their six rather than stay and shoot at bad guys from a position where he could also keep Sheppard from doing a graceless face-plant in the muck.

Only sheer stubbornness kept Sheppard on his feet—Rodney could tell, because he was entertaining his own thoughts about how mud really was quite soft, and might even be warmer than the rain, and if he was laying down he wouldn't be moving, which might help make the pain go away.

It would also kill him. _Rodney_ had no compunctions at accepting Ronon's support when the man showed up at his side like some dripping bear-god out of barbarian mythology. "Think we scared them off," the Satedan said, showing a predatory flash of teeth. "You okay?"

Torn between the desire to make a sarcastic remark and the need to breathe, Rodney compromised by shaking his head and gasping out a strangled "No!" which he hoped would convey the depth of his non-okayness, as well as his disdain for such utterly mindless questions.

Ronon just looked at him and nodded. "Okay." Clearly the subtlety of Rodney's rebuke had gone straight over Conon's dreadlocked head.

With Ronon's hand at his back, the going was easier. Rodney even managed to pick up a little speed. Maybe he could still make it to the jumper without falling down and dying on the cold, rain-soaked ground of this miserable, gate-less excuse of a planet. That would be good. If they could only get to the jumper in time to keep Sheppard from doing the same, they would be all set to go home and not have to fill out a number of embarrassing reports on how they had lost their leader in the mud.

A flash of lightning overhead, with thunder following hard on its heels, made Rodney duck, gasp, groan in pain, and revise the odds for their survival. No matter how much he hated betting against himself, these numbers didn't lie.

Neither did Ronon. "There it is."

Possibly premature relief flooded through Rodney. This part of the canyon looked just like what they had been running through for the past eternity. He wiped water from his face with one hand and squinted ahead. An invisible vehicle had its downsides. All he could see was driving rain, and a landscape painted in broad strokes of wet charcoal.

Then Sheppard was there, looking like one more drop of rain would knock him over. Teyla was at his side, not quite touching, but keeping a worried eye on him. Whatever was wrong with the colonel, he still seemed to know what he was doing, because the cloak came down and the jumper's hatch opened for them.

They piled on board, trailing puddles and mud in their wake. Sheppard wobbled over to the pilot's seat, where he sat down and leaned intently over the controls. Rodney flopped limply in the seat next to him, exhaling a pathetic "Ow," as the move knocked the wind out of him.

Ronon and Teyla paused to shed their soaked coats and gear before joining them in the cockpit. By then, Sheppard was already piloting them up through the storm. The inertial dampeners were compensating, but it was a bumpy ride—possibly bumpier than usual. When they broke through the clouds and sunlight washed over them, the jumper's last shudder felt like a sigh of relief.

Rodney finally found his voice. "Nice rescue," he said to the others, and meant it. "Do you have any morphine?" He meant that, too.

"Where are you hurt?" He looked up sharply at the soft question—Teyla had moved so quietly that Rodney hadn't heard her come to stand by his seat. The motion caused pain to flare from his ribcage and stab its way up his body, into his neck, finally setting his clenched teeth on edge.

"Ribs," he hissed. "They broke them." 

Sheppard turned to watch him with a look of pure concern—one that made Rodney feel like crap, because the colonel looked worse than he felt.

Teyla had an encouraging smile for Rodney, but she had not missed the implication of his words, and her eyes had gone dark with anger. "I will see what we have."

"I'm sorry." It was the first time Sheppard had spoken to him since the rescue. His voice was low and raw, and Rodney turned sharply on him, trying to obliterate the wave of guilt that washed over him at the apology. The jumper shuddered again.

"You! Why are you even sitting there?"

Sheppard blinked. "Because I'm flying?" The stubborn idiot was trying to go for his usual lazy drawl, but Rodney was having none of it. The rain might have washed away the blood—it should not have washed away Rodney's brain. He was too smart to get distracted by something as inconsequential as weather. He should have done this before they took off, and now they were already leaving the sunny glow of the planet's atmosphere behind. Rodney didn't like what that said about his intelligence and ability to focus, and having his intellect questioned—even by himself—put him in a bad mood.

"Well—don't!" Rodney stood up, winced, and crossed his arms over his chest. 

"Don't fly?"

"Exactly!"

"I don't know about you, Rodney, but _I_ would like to go home." Sheppard wasn't looking at him, but Rodney could see the pale reflection of his face in the jumper's window—a ghostly contrast to the cold dark of space. There would be bruises swelling there, along with matching sets on his arms, and God only knew what other horrific injuries.

"You're not going to get us home—you're going to get us lost. You're not in any state to be driving."

"Rodney, I'm _flying_."

"Flying us lost, then." Ronon had stopped squeezing water out of his hair to watch the two of them, and Rodney felt Teyla's warm presence behind him.

"I'm not going to get lost," Sheppard objected. "I'm aiming for a _moon_."

"Right. Because I'm sure you're not at all seeing double, or feeling nauseous, or going to pass out and crash us into any of the million asteroids between us and the gate."

"No."

Rodney stared hard at the back of Sheppard's head, trying to determine if any of the lumps that must be hiding there might be fatal. A mere bone-drenching soaking was not enough stop Sheppard's hair from poking ridiculously in all directions, but Rodney thought it looked more droopy and matted than usual. "Right. Then you can go sit over there for five minutes." He pointed at the seat he had just vacated himself. Pointing hurt less than he had expected. Maybe just five hundred white-hot pokers instead of a thousand.

"But I'm flying."

Oh, boy. Concussions made for such extremely intelligent conversations. "Well, you need to stop."

Sheppard looked genuinely confused. "Stop flying?"

"Yes!"

"John, if you are hurt, maybe you should let Rodney fly. Just for a little while?" Teyla made the suggestion in a light, reasonable voice that had nothing to do with the look Rodney caught her exchanging with Ronon. If Sheppard didn't move soon, Rodney had the feeling he would _get_ moved.

"He's hurt," Sheppard protested.

"So are you!" Rodney snapped at him. "For God's sake, Sheppard, just let Teyla check you out."

"You can't fly straight," Sheppard grumbled, but he pushed himself away from the controls.

Rodney leaned over as carefully as he could, a breath hitching in his chest at what the motion was doing to his ribs, and touched the console. "Well, neither can you." The display lit up, and showed their projected trajectory overlaid by a rather wobbly line.

"Oh. I did that?"

"Yes, Sheppard, you did."

"Crap."

"Yeah." Rodney had to offer a chagrined smile at Sheppard's dismay.

"No flying?"

"No flying, there's a good Colonel. Now go sit down." Rodney made shooing motions at Sheppard, and sidestepped to let him pass. Rodney seized the opportunity to give him a quick once-over—Sheppard's pupils were dilated, but the same size, which was good. Most of his body was still covered in his soaking wet, black uniform. It was ripped in places, and clung to the bony angles of his body, making him look as bedraggled as a cat just in from the rain. It also served to hide any obvious injuries, although it did nothing to disguise his shivering. Rodney frowned. 

Teyla deftly moved to Sheppard's side, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Let's get you into some dry clothes, John. You look like you need it."

Sheppard nodded, possibly slightly dazed, possibly just aware of how soaked he was, and allowed Teyla to lead him into the back of the jumper.

Rodney turned his attention from their leader's bout with the side effect of his hero complex, and to the seat he himself had volunteered to take. He was not relishing the transition he would have to make from standing to sitting. He couldn't even take a deep breath to brace himself, because deep breaths hurt like a bitch.

An unexpected touch stirred him from his grim contemplations. "Here." Ronon's hand under his elbow took most of the weight on that side with an easy gesture. "Broken ribs, huh? That hurts." Ronon smiled faintly, his face full of sympathy as he nodded to the seat. "Sit."

With Ronon's aid, sitting down was less painful than it could have been, but it wasn't painless, which was what Rodney really wanted. "Ow, ow, _ow_. Stupid Sheppard getting all hurt—now I won't be able to take my morphine!" But he kept his voice low enough that it shouldn't carry to the cargo hold.

Ronon sat down in the seat behind Rodney, leaning over far enough that his head was almost brushing back of Rodney's chair. "You know, I wish I could fly one of these things," Ronon confided. "But I'm not letting them stick needles with weird DNA-stuff in me."

"Well, bully for you." It was a liability, having a ship only half their team could fly. Usually that was one thing Rodney didn't constantly worry about, but on a day like today it made him feel oddly protective of the one person who could actually fly it _well_. They were still a good hour away from the distant moon that shielded the space gate from a local asteroid field, and he wasn't going to let the idiot with the concussion and possible internal injuries get anywhere near the pilot seat, no matter what he'd had to tell the guy to get him out of it in the first place. He set his jaw stubbornly, and prepared to suffer nobly.

"Want me to get you Ibuprofen?" Though if Ronon had his say, apparently he'd suffer as little as possible. Using one of the self-injectors of morphine was right out, but Ibuprofen?

"Yes—bring the whole bottle!"

Ronon did. They proclaimed to be Extra Strength, which Rodney supposed was good, since this was like combating malaria with cold medicine. He glanced at the instructions, and then counted out a full day's dose. He'd worry about his poor, damaged liver later. Right now he was busy worrying about the extra stars that flared up in his vision every time he drew a deep breath. He washed the pills down with water from the flask Ronon offered him, and grimaced at the bitter aftertaste. 

"Rodney." Teyla touched his shoulder, and Rodney looked up at her. She was carrying a thick towel, and what looked like a set of gray sweatclothes. "You are wet." She deposed the clothes on the DHD, and then applied the towel to Rodney's head, wiping briskly.

"What—hey, I can do that myself!" Rodney spluttered an indignant protest, but Teyla ignored him. He decided it would be most strategic to endure the treatment in silence. It was the closest he would come to admitting that he found the vigorous rubbing of soft, dry terrycloth rather comfortable. He might even have leaned into her touch a little, but that could be blamed entirely on the fact that he was exhausted and injured.

His hair felt light and fluffy when Teyla stopped, and smiled at him. "There. Better already."

Rodney was going to snatch the towel from her hands, but the band of fire that squeezed his chest distracted him. He made a pained noise, and contented himself with accepting it when she wrapped the towel around his soggy shoulders. The dry clothes would have to wait until the pain medication kicked in.

Now more or less settled in for the long haul, Rodney programmed the HUD with their trajectory, and ran through all the safety protocols for the autopilot on the ship's computer. Satisfied that they were working properly, he decided that it was safe to let go of the controls for a minute. He swiveled the chair around in order to look into the back of the jumper without having to twist his body.

Teyla had managed to get Sheppard out of his ruined uniform, and into another set of sweatclothes. His hair had been toweled dry, and stood up in wild disarray. The Athosian was currently trying to coax him into lying down, but he was shaking his head, staring ahead.

"No." He pushed at the space blanket Teyla had arranged over his knees. "You said—you said five minutes."

"John..." Teyla sighed. Sheppard wasn't even able to _sit_ without swaying gently. Guilt and annoyance and a certain strange, warm feeling clashed in a tightening of Rodney's chest that had nothing to do with his injuries. With a wrenching effort, annoyance won out.

"Oh, what does he want to do now?"

"Fly," Sheppard answered testily. "And 'he' can hear you."

Rodney glared. Beside him, Ronon raised an eyebrow. Teyla rolled her eyes. Sheppard wasn't so far gone that he missed the 'our leader is an idiot' looks aimed in his direction. "What?" he asked, clutching at the blanket he had been trying to get rid of a moment ago.

"Sheppard..." Rodney sighed, echoing Teyla. This was impossible. The man just wouldn't give up. Said trait had kept them all alive in the face of Wraith and worse, so it didn't usually give him cause to complain, but _really_. Sometimes Rodney had to wonder whether it was genetic—not likely, since his ancestors the Ancients were the original giver-uppers—or if it had to do with repeatedly sticking his finger in an electric socket in his formative years. The latter would neatly explain the hair, too.

Ronon's low rumble broke the silence. "You can come sit here." The Satedan stood up, looking firmly at Sheppard. As he nodded at his seat, a sheepish look crept over Ronon's face. The seat was sopping wet. "Uh, Teyla?"

Teyla grinned, and threw him a towel, which Ronon hastily used to wipe off the seat. Sheppard watched the activity with a look of intense concentration.

"You sit there, Sheppard. Keep an eye on McKay for us." Ronon's voice was firm, and he caught Rodney's eye just in time to quell a cry of protest at anybody needing to keep anything on his flying.

"Okay, Sheppard," he said instead, finally catching on to what his less pain-impaired teammates were doing. "So you'll be right here in case anything happens."

"This is because I couldn't fly straight, right?" Sheppard asked them with a rueful grin.

"And because we believe you suffer from a concussion, as well as several other injuries," Teyla confirmed. Rodney's stomach twisted at that. If it hadn't been for his playing bodyguard to Rodney, Sheppard would probably not have been injured at all.

Maybe some of what he thought showed in his face, because the colonel looked straight at Rodney and proclaimed, "I'll be fine," clearly enunciating the word. "Bed rest, painkillers—it'll make for a nice break," he said with a wry smile.

Teyla helped Sheppard over to the seat behind Rodney, and Ronon trailed after her, carrying an armful of space blankets. Rodney watched them get their colonel settled. There were faint lines of pain around his eyes, but his color had already improved.

Sheppard also seemed to be resigned to the idea of backseat piloting, because he had stopped resisting Teyla's efforts to tuck him in. After a minute or so, she stepped away from him and nodded, apparently satisfied with her handiwork. The only things sticking out of the cocoon of silver blankets were Sheppard's head, and his socked feet. He looked fantastically ridiculous—and also quite warm and comfortable.

A sleepy smile hovered at the corner of Sheppard's quirked lips. "You know, I think I'll just sit here for a while."

Teyla and Ronon shared a smile, and Rodney almost laughed out loud. He caught himself in time—laughing would have _sucked_ for his broken ribs. "You do that," he said instead.

"In case McKay needs help," Sheppard added wisely.

"Thank you."

Sheppard blinked slowly, not quite catching the sarcasm of Rodney's reply for some reason. "Or maybe—maybe I'll just sleep for a little while."

Rodney nodded. "Do that. You're in good hands."

"Yes, I am." Sheppard smiled, and for a moment, Rodney's chest didn't hurt at all.


End file.
